


pressure gauge

by Val Mora (valmora)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-02
Updated: 2010-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-28 02:23:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valmora/pseuds/Val%20Mora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was supposed to be a vacation.  The weather isn't nice enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pressure gauge

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted at the kink meme [here](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/9482.html?thread=12859146#t12859146) for [this prompt](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/9482.html?thread=11886602#t11886602) and archived at the kindex [here](http://community.livejournal.com/hetalia_kindex/797363.html).

There is supposed to be a storm tomorrow, but for now, tonight, the humidity presses. Germany took a cold shower, only to break into a sweat the moment he was finished. Even wearing only shorts to bed, he is uncomfortable, flushed and sticky, the sheets scratching his face.

Italy is of course no help, hot-skinned pressure trying to mold itself to Germany’s side. Germany doesn’t know how Italy can sleep in this heat.

It wasn’t supposed to be this warm. This was supposed to be a rustic vacation in one of Italy’s country homes. They were supposed to unwind, eat well, sleep more, possibly engage in sexual intercourse.

No such luck. The heat blunts Germany’s appetite, his attention, his ability to sleep. And the humidity is too much to even want to let his fingers touch. He certainly has no interest in being as close to Italy as sex would require.

Not that Italy has been paying attention, clearly. Clearly. Warm sticky sweetness bundled up against him, a purr and a wiggle as Italy tries to charm his way into sleeping close. Germany knows this will end like it has the last two nights: he’ll be unable to sleep until the early hours of the morning, and wake not long after dawn when the heat strikes, drenched with sweat and smothered by limpet-Italy blanket.

He’ll get more sleep if he doesn’t waste time protesting. Eventually Italy always wins. He just wraps one arm around Italy and closes his eyes, lets his breathing even out, tries to ignore the sticky hot bare skin pressed all along his front.

 

 

 

A loud noise wakes him suddenly, his muscles tightening in surprise. Just rain on the skylight above the bed. He relaxes, lets Italy go, and realizes that the air has cooled off, the pressure easing. Soon it will be cold; already he’s glad to have Italy’s warmth beside him, though the way they’re sticking together isn’t all that pleasant.

Italy stirs, woken by Germany’s sudden tension, and mumbles, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s raining,” Germany says. “The noise surprised me.”

Italy sighs contentedly and wriggles a little closer, his cheek rubbing against Germany’s collarbone, his leg slipping slow-insidious over Germany’s. Germany regrets letting him sleep naked, but it was so warm that he thought only once couldn’t hurt…

So much for that. He lays one hand flat against Italy’s back, the bumps of Italy’s spine falling into his palm as Germany slides his hand down, down further, until Italy arches into him. Italy’s already half-hard, like Germany himself, and he keens softly as Germany pulls him close.

Germany leans to kiss him, then rolls onto his back, pulling Italy up on top of him, Italy’s knees falling around his thighs and lips sliding down Germany’s neck.

“You remembered,” Italy sighs happily, the thrum of his voice warm against Germany’s collarbone. “I promise it’ll be fun. Just don’t move.” He slides off Germany, crawls to Germany’s side of the bed, and opens the nightstand. Tosses the lube container onto the bed. Goes back to pawing through the drawer.

Germany watches the muscles of Italy’s thighs flex for balance, thinking of what’s between them and wanting to touch himself but not quite daring. Instead he edges the shorts down his hips, enjoying the sensation of cloth against his erection and feeling guilty about it.

“Um,” Italy says, still leaning over the nightstand, “I think we’re out of condoms.”

Germany closes his eyes and drops his head back on the pillow. He doesn’t swear. He thinks of the probability of the convenience store, which is ten kilometres away, being open at whatever ungodly hour of the morning it is. That one he doesn’t even need to do mental math for.

He rolls back onto his side and wills his body to shut up.

“Germany,” Italy asks, “does that mean you don’t want to? But you were all hard and I thought –”

Germany shuts his eyes tighter. “We’re out of condoms.”

Blessed silence, filled with the sound of rain. Germany relaxes his shoulders, a little.

The bed shifts as Italy moves across the bed, kneeling at his back. “…what do you mean? Does that mean you can’t? What did you do when you allied with someone before they were invented?”

“I don’t remember. I wasn’t around then.” And he’s never wanted to risk a venereal disease. “We should wait to engage in sexual intercourse until we’ve bought more condoms.”

“But…” Italy’s voice edges along a whine. “But I want to, even if we don’t have any. You know I’m not sick.”

He does know. He thinks about the hungry pitch of Italy’s voice, and the times he’s touched himself and not bothered with a condom. How it felt. How it would feel for Italy to ride him bare, just skin and slick.

“Yes,” he says, and then again, louder, “Yes. Fine. Let’s try it.”

Italy is back on top of him so quickly that it takes Germany a moment to realize what happened, and Germany is just as abruptly naked.

“I liked those shorts,” Italy says, absolutely matter-of-fact, “but they were in the way.”

Germany can’t say anything to that because Italy is kissing him, heat and slick tongue and little whimpers. Italy is thrusting faintly against Germany’s belly, one hand placed against Germany’s neck. The other clutches the lube and is pressed into the bed next to Germany’s ear.

Long after Germany’s lost himself in the kiss, long after he’s so hard it hurts and he thinks if Italy doesn’t stop right now Germany’s going to flip them over and take him, Italy sits up and unscrews the cap off the lube. Drops it on the bed – it’ll take forever to find it, if Germany doesn’t end up sleeping on it – and spills some, not nearly enough, onto his fingers.

He sits back a little, so Germany will be able to watch, and reaches behind himself. Germany can see the shadow of Italy’s wrist as he traces his opening, slips inside, out, in again. Italy’s eyes are closed, but his breathing comes in time with his finger – a hiss as he adds the second – and he’s hard, as hard as Germany is, swollen and leaking.

Germany breathes in, sits up, reaches to wrap his hand around Italy’s erection. Sliding against him, deliberately not in time with Italy’s fingers. Italy shivers and rocks minutely into Germany’s grasp.

“I need more, back there,” Italy whispers, “let me,” but he doesn’t move. Germany does. Slicks up his right hand - cold, and colder yet there, he’s sure – and his fingertip brushes Italy’s knuckles as he pushes in, just as he tightens the grip of his other hand down until his left knuckles touch the hair at Italy’s base.

Italy moans, tightening around Germany’s and his own fingers, and on the inhale gasps something like Please. He pulls his fingers out, tugs on Germany’s hand, uses the lubricant remaining on Germany’s fingers on Germany’s erection.

This time, it’s Germany whose breath stops. And he can’t get it back, because Italy wriggles down to him, spreading his knees and lowering himself, opening himself until Germany slips inside, not easily but judging by Italy’s appreciative hum pleasurably.

He’s never – like this – and it’s strange, rough and smooth and jarring, all sensation. He can feel the way Italy opens at the intrusion, the lubricant sliding barrier between them, thin and strange and all the way in.

And out, only a little before he needs-craves Italy again and pulls him down. Swollen and hot, unmuffled by plastic so that he can feel the slick-sweet sensation of flesh naked between them.

Italy kisses him, frantic, messy, desperate, hand between their bodies pleasuring himself, and watching that – watching Italy take his pleasure from what Germany is doing to him, what he is doing to himself – Germany trips into orgasm, far sooner than he expects or wants, and lies boneless, wanting to lend a hand but unable to move as Italy finishes.

Italy collapses on top of him. This happens frequently enough that Germany doesn’t even bother to push him off.

“Was it okay? I liked it. It’s messy but I don’t mind with you, if you don’t mind, if it’s okay –”

Germany pets Italy’s hair with the hand not covered in lube. “It was very good.”

Italy squeaks happily and hugs him. “I’m so glad that you had fun!”

It was more than fun. He never wants to have latex between them in bed again. He’ll go out and buy condoms tomorrow, but maybe. Maybe at the end of the week, he can arrange to forget to buy more. Make the last time of the vacation special, different, a treat for both of them.  



End file.
